Obeying her, he soon lost sight of Fanny; but Mrs. Dane continued to talk, at intervals, in such a flattering tone, that his turbid emotions were soothed. He had heard of the Chittles? No? They were very old friends of hers, said Mrs. Dane, and she particularly wanted him to know them. Ah, here they came; mother and daughter. Horace observed them. Mrs. Chittle was a frail, worn, nervous woman, who must once have been comely; her daughter, a girl of two-and-twenty, had a pale, thin face of much sweetness and gentleness. They seemed by no means at home in this company; but Mrs. Chittle, when she conversed, assumed a vivacious air; the daughter, trying to follow her example, strove vainly against an excessive bashfulness, and seldom raised her eyes. Why he should be expected to pay special attention to these people, Horace was at a loss to understand; but Mrs. Chittle attached herself to him, and soon led him into familiar dialogue. He learnt from her that they had lived for two or three years in a very quiet country place; they had come up for the season, but did not know many people. She spoke of her daughter, who stood just out of earshot,--her eyes cast down, on her face a sad fixed smile,--and said that it had been necessary almost to force her into society. ‘She loves the country, and is so fond of books; but at her age it’s really a shame to live like a nun--don’t you think so, Mr. Lord?’ Decidedly it was, said Horace. ‘I’m doing my best,’ pursued Mrs. Chittle, ‘to cure her of her shyness. She is really afraid of people--and it’s such a pity. She says that the things people talk about don’t interest her; but _all_ people are not frivolous--are they, Mr. Lord?’ Horace hoped not; and presently out of mere good-nature he tried to converse with the young lady in a way that should neither alarm her shyness nor prove distasteful to her intelligence. But with very little success. From time to time the girl glanced at him with strange timidity, yet seemed quite willing to listen as long as he chose to talk. Fanny, being at a considerable distance from home, was to return to the boarding-house where her chaperon now lived, and have a room there for the night. Horace disliked this arrangement, for the objectionable Mankelow lived in the same house. When he was able to get speech with Fanny, he tried to persuade her to go with him all the way home to Camberwell in a cab. Miss. French would not listen to the suggestion. ‘Who ever heard of such a thing? It wouldn’t be proper.’ ‘Proper! Oh, I like that!’ he replied, with scathing irony. ‘You can either like it or not. Mrs. Damerel wouldn’t dream of allowing it. I think she’s quite as good a judge of propriety as you are.’ They were in a corner of the dining-room. Fanny, having supped much to her satisfaction, had a high colour, and treated her lover with more than usual insolence. Horace had eaten little, but had not refrained from beverages; he was disposed to assert himself.